I Don't Know This Dance Any More
by JannP
Summary: For all the things he's perceptive about, all the things he's learning and knows and one could even say expert on… he's woefully unsure about the workings of the human heart in the 21st century. It used to be more straightforward, but that seems to be the case for just about everything. Ichabod-central oneshot.


**A/N: ** This concept would not leave me alone, and I have no explanation for it other than I could stare at Tom Mison endlessly and I'm adoring this show. This is also my first attempt at this fandom so... let me know what you think. Please. For better or worse. Thank you.

**Disclaimer:** I own some cars and stuff, but that's about it. I definitely don't own Sleepy Hollow and... to be honest I'm not even sure who does. The title and inspiration come from **The Art of Understanding**by **Coyote Theory. **The history of the word "okay" or "OK" is fascinating to me and, even if I don't get into it here, it's a real thing. No one used it before the mid-1800s. I'm full of fun facts. I guess.

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**I Don't Know This Dance Any More**

He's not going to use the internet again to get the answer to his latest quandary, even if everyone (that he speaks with, that is) seems to think that's the way to solve problems. He doesn't believe it could help with this; in fact, he's not sure much can.

For all the things he's perceptive about, all the things he's learning and knows and one could even say expert on… he's woefully unsure about the workings of the human heart in the 21st century. It used to be more straightforward, but that seems to be the case for just about everything. He met Katrina, he was spellbound the moment he saw her, they married quickly and in spite of all the reasons it was a terrible idea. Even given all he's going through at the present, he would still say she's the best thing that's happened to him. For as much as emotion rarely played (plays?) a role in his life, he knows what he feels for her and it's love and devotion in equal measure.

That does not change the unfortunate fact that she's dead and he's living (again. He thinks.)

So what does that mean for their union? He told the disreputable madam on the computer screen he was espoused to another, and it wasn't just because it was the proper thing to say—he said it because it _feels_ true. This is where things get muddled. Their marriage ceremony was nothing special—it was quick, it was early in the morning, and the sole witness was someone in his regiment who was killed in battle two days later. There were no trinkets exchanged, and really only the space of a morning and part of an afternoon—he felt like a time thief because there were so many other things they both should've been attending to—in which they celebrated privately. He's not entirely sure how things work in this century, but it seems as though these things stand more on ceremony now. Speaking of coffee dates and dinner outings just complicates things further.

He finds himself watching Abbie—Miss Mills—and can't help feeling a sort of kinship with her. It is suspiciously similar to the kinship he felt with Katrina when he first realized he was destined through other paths to meet her—but it's different, too. It's unsettling and he doesn't know what to make of it. It could be overlapping commonality in their circumstance, or it could be infidelity. He knows some of the lines of propriety, but not all of them. Given he's still afraid of just _what_ will pop up and speak to him from the screen if he opens the online device again, he'll take his chances with reason and logic here. It's failed him far less often than technological advances he doesn't want to understand.

Religion and faith never factored prominently into his previous life. He made it a point to be well-educated on the subject, of course, but the vast majority of it never meant more to him than facts on a page. If there were a logical chain of proof, some reasonable way to order a particular observation—he believed it were so. He relies less on logic in modern times, a fact which perhaps surprises him more than any other, but there still has to be sense and order. Reason. Action and consequence—or result if that's a more favorable term because 'consequence' has negative connotation. He cannot bear to think of the consequences of altering the outcome of their work with something as trivial as emotion.

(If he wears the soles of his boots out with this pacing, he's going to have a more physical problem because he's not sure cobblers even _exist_ anymore.)

(How do people come by solid footwear in 2013? Perhaps he'll ask Miss Mills once her amused smirk fades at his insistence her computer is broken and she repair it at once.)

Pacing, faith, and reason are not helping him with this matter, though. Bonds with people—kinship, matrimony, whatever they may be—defy reason. They are witnesses, they are in this together, and that is against any reasoning he can muster up. Only the one who bound them understands the nature of the bond. Katrina understands his bond with Death because she, initially, created it. Therefore, it stands to reason that whatever force bonded he and Miss Mills together is the only one who could tell him what it is, exactly. He's not about to stand and ask Death—or to summon a demon—what they share. That seems unwise and destructive. Not to mention impossible on a few levels.

"Crane?"

He spins on his heel—lightly because footwear will become an issue, he's convinced—and faces the object of his mental…torment? Anguish? A…doration?

"Ah, Miss Mills," he greets, smiling. He ignores the way his thoughts feel just a bit lighter—maybe—with her in front of him.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

There is a thick layer of amusement in her voice and he's not entirely sure he likes it—being something she's amused by. It's uncomfortable and he finds himself wishing, even for a second, he could be in control of his contact with his wife. He thinks of her—the feel of her, the way she presses her body against him when they kiss, the notes of her breathless voice when she's talking to him and they're pressed for time (as they always were and quite likely will always be.)

"Would you believe I'm exercising?" He chances. He doesn't want to tell her what he's actually thinking about—obviously.

Her amusement turns into a smile. "You're pacing." Her smile fades, though. "Is everything okay?"

There's that word again; she's tried to explain it, but it's distracting. He's actually a little fascinated with that word.

"Ooookaaaaaay," he repeats, dragging the word out. He isn't sure how he feels about the notion he _knows_ she's trying not to laugh at him. Or about the notion of her stirring this feeling—kinship, he's calling it, because that seems safe and non-adulterous for now—with the laugh he wants to earn despite her obvious efforts to temper it.

"Not this again," she says. Her voice is warm, friendly. Nearly intimate. He takes a step backward without thinking about it, as Katrina's voice disappears from his head.

This feels wrong; in this moment, it really does not matter if he vowed to share his life—his first life? This is so unclear—with Katrina von Tassel and then they both died. It doesn't matter if he feels uncertain with the notion of fidelity. The only things he can use as his guide in these times he doesn't understand are his instincts. It feels wrong, to warm at the way Miss Mills' eyes spark a little when she's looking at him the way she is now and she's using the voice she is. It feels wrong to be unsettled.

He hates, more than anything, feeling uncertain and off-balance. It's the way he always feels with her and he wants to trap it, bind it, control it. He needs to figure out how. He's not going to tell her any of this. At least, not today. Probably not tomorrow, either.

"Okay," he says, more seriously. He's being an ass and he knows it—that's her word, not his. She looked up the evolution of the word 'okay' on the heels of his fascination (she declined to do the same for the word 'ass'); it ostensibly began somewhere a hundred years after his time and a hundred some-odd years before hers.

Yet here they are, using it together. He knows they're breaking rules. The details don't seem so important, though, when she narrows her eyes at him that way and he feels his own amusement with her bubbling up around everything else he can't explain or define. His pursed lips turn into a smile under her withering glare and, against all desire he has to draw lines and boundaries and be safe… his eyes drop down her petite frame.

For some reason, she's opted out of her usual drab palette today. Well, not entirely. She's still wearing mostly black, but the low-cut sweater that will end up tied around her trim waist has a gold-striped pattern on it. It's the first time he's seen something besides black, white, or grey on her. One of the stripes has a break for her… considerable… he looks away quickly and swallows against a dry throat.

That's _definitely_ not something he should notice or be fascinated by. Perhaps he'll let himself later but… not now. Probably not tomorrow, either. But eventually—as he figures all this out.

"You look lovely," he manages. "In… the gold on your…" He knows his voice sounds a little choked—it shouldn't—and he clears his throat. "We should get to work."

She completely fails to keep her laugh inside as she says okay.

He feels like maybe they're navigating this confusing currents, actually, just fine.

Maybe they will be _okay_—for better or worse. Or until they conquer Death—in whichever combination that happens.


End file.
